


Low, Low, Low

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Demon Dean Winchester, Inspired by Music, M/M, POV Dean Winchester, POV Second Person, Rough Sex, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-06
Updated: 2014-06-06
Packaged: 2018-02-03 16:14:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1750766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s been two weeks since you took off running, and you find yourself in a bar in Kentucky, challenging the biggest guy in the joint to prove his worth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Low, Low, Low

It’s been two weeks since you took off running, and you find yourself in a bar in Kentucky, challenging the biggest guy in the joint to prove his worth. Whiskey doesn't affect you like it used to – drinking used to be something to enjoy, something useable to forget your troubles, to throw your life behind in those fleeting moments of stupor. Now, it’s a miracle if you can even get to feel _buzzed_. This guy though, this guy’s halfway through his fifteenth shot and he’s still kicking. Another five and he’ll be on the floor, whether you put him there or not.

It’s not like you’re gonna pay for any of these drinks, anyway. You haven’t since you started this trek across America, your rampage through bars and booze and whatever piece of tail you could grab at night. No one’s been on your trail that you figure, no one’s picked up a pattern. No one’s _died_ yet either, but there’s been a few attempts at life. Only on guys who bit off more than they could chew, who insulted your newfound pride. You made them feel the error of their ways. You made sure they were too scared to call the authorities. That was what you needed, really, cops riding your ass. If they ended up dead, you’d never hear the end of it.

You drive. Drink. Fuck. Sleep. Cycle repeats. You feel none of it. You’re going with the motions, wondering if this was how Cain lived his life in the past – you doubt it. But this is _you_ you’re talking about, though. The change in your soul only enhanced your usual habits and revved them up a notch. You’re a well-oiled machine now – emotionless, no conscience, no empathy, nothing. You’re perfect, built for the thrill of the kill. Because hunting isn’t your forte anymore. Nothing is, really.

You spend the mornings feigning sleep before you head out for another day on the road, and you prowl the night once you settle down in your next city, whether it be in the back of your car or in whatever motel you hit up. You don't pay – one of the perks of being a Demon, you can manipulate the masses into doing what you want. Whether it’s an ability or just a side effect of the Mark, you don’t know, or care. Point is, you can get your way with the bat of an eyelash, wooing whomever you please. Or, pleases you. There’s a whole lotta that, these days.

The guy’s looking woozy around the seventeenth shot, slamming the dinky little glass upside down onto the table with a slur of words. You’re sitting back and watching him, his buddies gathered at his back, egging him on. He won’t make it much longer, though, you can tell. His eyes are glazing over, movements sluggish. And you’re just sitting there _watching_ , waiting for him to drop. You’re not remotely tipsy, not even nearing the border. Part of you wonders how much it’ll take. Maybe there’s a liquor store around here.

You both make it through two more rounds before his head hits the table. It was his suggestion to go for the hard stuff –guess he couldn't handle it. Thirty-nine empty shots are littered on the table, and in victory, you down the fourtieth before leaving the table and the comatose man atop it, his buddies trying to wake him. Amidst the chatter of the patrons, no one notices you walk out. Or, zap out, if that’s what you’d wanna call it. Either way, you’re gone and they can’t find you.

The next day, you catch wind someone’s looking for you, and they’re hot on your trail. Maybe you shouldn't trust the word of lesser Demons, but the specifics they gave were too good to pass up. A certain human and a certain _Angel_ are headed in your direction. Apparently the trail you left wasn't very subtle at all. How they’d gotten the idea to check random _bar_ mishaps, you’ll never know. Either way, they’re coming. You figure you can make it to New Orleans by mid afternoon if you head out now. But this bed is too comfortable and you don’t want to wrench yourself away from the warm body next to you, sable hair strewn about, too-blue eyes closed in slumber. She won’t notice your departure.

You pack up and leave within twenty minutes without so much as a passing ‘goodbye,’ headed down I69 over to I55, then south. You’re aware you could just _appear_ anywhere you wanted to go, but what’s the fun of that? Driving’s always been cathartic for you, human or not. Even as a Demon, it gives you something to do. You’re always moving lately, barely sleeping, never eating, never _needing_. The Blade doesn't call to you so much as you thought it would. Maybe it’s because you’re not human anymore. You can control the urge.

Probably why no one’s ended up dead thus far. Give it a week or two.

You’re at a bar on Bourbon Street –funny— on the fifteenth day, scoping out for potential prey for the night, when you catch a whiff of something _off_. Humans have a distinct scent, you realize. Sweat and emotion and soul, hints of life – different than when you were alive. But this is weird – there’s something horrifically _bright_ by the door, and you’re the only one that notices, unless Crowley has one of his goons following you around like normal. Must’ve gotten the night off. Figures.

The light, the terrifyingly blinding _light_ is walking closer, and it’s at that point you realize what it is. _Who_ it is, rather. The last you saw him, his Grace was next to nothing. His head wasn't on straight. Last you knew, he was in _jail_ , but here he is, standing in front of your barstool, arms pressed across his chest. If the rigidity of the Grace swirling before you is any indication, he’s mad. Moreso than ever.

Neither of you speak, simply opting to _stare_ at each other. Like old times, right? You don’t know who makes the first move – you have the feeling it’s him – because in the next moment, you’re in a back alley, skipping out on another tab with your back pressed into the wall, his lips devouring yours. Totally unangelic of him, but you’re not complaining. _Neither_ of you are.

So this is how it goes. Sam and Castiel chase you across the country for two additional weeks, and every night, the Angel spontaneously appears in your motel room and has his filthy way with you. You’re not given a choice in the matter. There’s never conversation, no idle chatter, and it’s never gentle. Again, you don’t complain, you just take it, _all_ of it. The hard press of his lips against every inch of your skin, teeth leaving bite marks you won’t let fade, his hands pushing you into positions you’ve never bothered to try.

It’s dirty, hotter than it should be – he’s an _Angel_ , not some sort of…sex fiend. Where did he even pick _up_ this stuff, anyway? You only goad him on, tell him to give it to you harder, to make yourself his bitch. And he _does_ – on your front, his hand buried in your hair, another binding your wrists together, pounding into you within an inch of your life until you’re screaming into the sheets and waking up the neighbors with your incoherency. You’ve never come harder in your life than the times you’re with him.

He’s never there the next morning. Probably gone back to Sam, _wherever_ he is. Castiel has every opportunity to tell you brother just where you are, but he refuses to divulge. You don’t know why, but you have an inkling of a feeling. If he gave up your location, then your blasphemous relations couldn't continue. They would both try to cure you; throw you in the dungeon and pump you so full of blood you wouldn't be able to see straight. It wouldn't be pleasant, either. Maybe he’s sparing you. Maybe he likes you like this. Maybe he doesn’t want to see you go through that pain.

The sixth morning of your tryst, though, he’s there. Granted he’s facing away from you, but he’s _there_ , all that bare skin begging to be touched. The hard planes of his back, short hairs curling near the nape of his neck, even the sharp jut of hipbones under your fingertips –you want to devour him, in every way possible. Bite him until he bleeds, until he screams your name. You don’t care how. You just _want_ , for the first time in weeks.

The human part of you would be terrified. But he’s dead now. The _new_ you doesn't have the emotional capacity to give two shits about anything.

He shudders from your touch, trying to curl away. Probably to make it to the floor. He’s trying to escape. Instead you hold him tighter, your arms around his waist, a hand splayed upon his chest. He breathes. Relaxes. “You got your Grace back,” you say. It’s not a question. He hums quietly in acknowledgement, refusing to do much else. “You’re not as… terrifying as I thought you’d be.”

“I thought you were _dead_ ,” he comments, completely out of left field. You stare at the back of his head. “I ‘recharged,’ so to speak. I didn’t know what else to do, it was either that or—.”

“No, no, I get it,” you reply. You really do. His tendencies in the past towards his own existence have been… worrisome. In a way that you’re not willing to admit, you’ve always been concerned with his well-being. Well, in the past. Now is different. You couldn't feel anything for him even if you tried. The part of you that genuinely _cared_ about him, about Sam, about everyone, is long gone.

“Do you _really_ , Dean?” His tone is cold. He doesn't want to be there – you only hold him tighter, unwillingly to let him leave. Not just yet. He could fly away at any point; he _can_ now. Heaven’s been reopened. There’s nothing stopping him.

Except _you_. You can feel it in him, the unwillingness. He’s trying to keep distant, he’s trying not to _feel_. Angel’s are cold and bound to God’s will. The whole _lot_ of them. But then there’s the one in your arms, the one who’s breathing when he doesn’t need to. Sleeps when it’s expected of him. Eats even though he can’t taste. Loves when he shouldn’t have to. Cries when it’s all he can do to keep from breaking apart. And all of it is the most human thing you’ve ever seen, of any creature you’ve come across.

If only you could share the same sentiment. A little part of you, some distant, writhing part of your black soul breaks at the sight of him there, shivering in your hold. You don’t feel it. You _can’t_. You shove it aside as a side effect of your deteriorating humanity.

Still, you’re clutching to him like a lifeline, fingers digging into his skin, above his tattooed hip, over his heart. Your legs twine. Nose buried in his neck. You’re not in the mood for anything but lying there with him in your sights, never letting him go. Screw Sam, screw Crowley and whoever else is breathing down your neck. This right here is everything. “I get it, really,” you mumble into his hairline.

Quiet. “This is vile,” he practically yells, trying to squirm away again. You pull him tighter, crushingly so. He could smite you back into the pit if he wanted, but he doesn’t make a move to do so. He’s shameful for what he’s done, and you understand. Angel’s aren’t supposed to go around boning Demons whenever they feel fit. Wasn’t that what caused all the Fallen in the past, Angels ‘cohabitating’ with women? What would his brothers have to say to _this_? “This isn’t _you_ , Dean. What we’re doing—.”

You could’ve retorted with a ‘you started it,’ but now isn’t the right time. Better not to piss him off more than he already is. “I’m still in here,” you murmur into his skin, “just… not _entirely_.” Which is probably the understatement of the _century_.

He shifts, and you let him roll over to face you; his eyes are bloodshot and wet, looking more tired than you’ve ever seen him. A shiver runs through you at the touch of his hand, pressed firmly over your heart. “There’s a light here,” he states, tracing a finger over a phantom line, “in your soul. The moment you kill for the first time, that spark will die.” He looks to you, fatigued. “Of all the things I’ve given up having faith in, I’m afraid, even through our circumstances,” he swallows, “that I’ll always have hope that you’ll come back to us, as the Dean Winchester I know.” _To me. The one I love._ You can hear the words plain as day, though his lips never move.

You wish you could believe the words he speaks, but his pleas fall on deaf ears. Demons don’t feel. Just as much as Angel’s shouldn't. What an odd couple you make. An Angel afraid of falling and a Demon scared of returning to everything he once had. You don’t love him like he does you. Maybe in the past, but not anymore. Not until this is rectified, until the numbness goes away and you stop your self-righteous journey to fuck yourself over. Whenever that’ll be. With what you’ve gotten yourself into, maybe never.

He twists himself out of your grip and sits up – you watch the way he moves, entranced by the writhing of muscle, the tension hidden behind human skin. The whiteness hasn’t faded. The wings are all there, menacing, burning endlessly in your sight. Four sets of eyes watch you. His own blues are vibrant, radiating, searching for any signs of hope within you.

You know there’s none. He thinks differently. You’re at an impasse with no chance of regaining what you've lost. He wants to save you again, drag you up from the pit where you’re residing. Guess you’ll have to find out what happens next.

You take his fingers and kiss them lightly, telling him you like his hands.

All full of glory.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by R.E.M.'s "Low"
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://twitter.com/loversantiquity).


End file.
